


B-Movie Scream Queen

by Rumpels



Category: Halloween Movies - All Media Types, The Texas Chainsaw Massacre (Movies)
Genre: Cannibalism, Murder, Stalking, Strong Language, Torture, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-10
Updated: 2018-06-25
Packaged: 2019-03-03 03:14:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,972
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13332300
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rumpels/pseuds/Rumpels
Summary: Jordan moved to Haddonfield to get away from her problems, not to become the object of obsession to two psychotic murderers.Texas Chainsaw Massacre x Halloween CrossoverSecond place in clevernotbrilliant's 'Anything But a Love Triangle' challenge on HPFT.





	1. On Cherry Hill There's a House Behind the Trees

**Author's Note:**

> Excludes anything from Texas Chainsaw Massacre II (1986), Texas Chainsaw Massacre: the Next Generation [TCM IV](1994), and Texas Chainsaw Massacre: the Beginning (2006). Will take into account primarily the original Texas Chainsaw Massacre (1974), Texas Chainsaw Massacre III (1990), and Leatherface (2017), and borrows some ideas from Texas Chainsaw Massacre 3D (2013). That being said, I'll be using the name, Jedidiah Sawyer/Leatherface [if you don't know, the TCM movies are notorious for changing Leatherface's real name--so I had to pick one].
> 
> Primarily takes into account the original Halloween (1978).
> 
> Everything in this story takes place after all movie events.
> 
> Displacing time, here--moving everything to modern-day. Also, taking some artistic liberties and moving Leatherface to Haddonfield--I'll explain why later. Okie dokie?
> 
> Written for clevernotbrilliant's "Anything but a Love Triangle Challenge", given the instructions: "write a love triangle in a new and fun way". Challenge accepted.
> 
> Bear with me.
> 
> \------
> 
> Chapter Title is a lyric from ‘Cherry Hill' by the Creepshow
> 
> I suggest that you read the Story Notes. You don't have to but some of the information might be useful. 
> 
> Warnings/Advisories: Sensitive topics (including references to torture, murder, and cannibalism). Swearing and violence.

_"This is a horror story I don't wanna be inside..._

_trapped inside a nightmare--will I make it out alive?"_

_\--Cherry Hill by the Creepshow_

* * *

_Wednesday, 31 October 2018_

_Haddonfield, Illinois_

 

_Haddonfield Elementary School_

 

Jordan nibbled anxiously on the rubbery pink eraser at the end of her pencil, watching the clock count down its final minutes to the bell.  The sluggish and resounding  _tock, tock, tock_ of the timepiece stifled the excited chatter her class of fourth-graders into the background. Each second dragged into the next, the large black hand seemingly taking an eternity to roll over every tick.  

 

_Tip--tip! Tap--tap--tap-tap!_

 

Eyes widening fractionally, Jordan's attention was torn back to the students.

 

In the front row, Ian Roth stooped from his seat to scoop up the markers that had rolled from his desk. He glanced up, catching, locking eyes with her before giving her a sheepish smile and returning to his Halloween project--just a crafty task she'd given them to speed up the last leg of the final block.

 

Shaking her head, Jordan sighed inwardly. Doctor Roster had her completely shaken, so much that she swore she was losing her mind--hearing things (footsteps behind her as she walked at night, strange bangs and clinks that the old farmhouse she'd bought earlier in the year didn't make before) and, as of this morning, seeing things (the silhouette of a man in the kitchen window in the first flush of daybreak, gone as quickly as it'd appeared).

 

It didn't take Roster long to first contact her after she'd moved into her home last April and he had been an ever-persistent presence in her life ever since.

 

* * *

 

_14 April 2018_

_North Haddonfield, Illinois_

 

_The Sawyer Estates_

 

The winter-worn lawn was overgrown and tangled with budding dogtooth violets and foamflower, creeping across the cracking cobbled path that led to the old farmhouse. It was probably too big for her, too old, with too many problems to fix, but Jordan couldn't pass up the potential.  

 

The former owner had died without any successors, causing the old farm property to be released to the state. The state held a closed auction to unload the property and Jordan was pleasantly surprised to find out that she'd won the bid for only $40,000--an astoundingly low price in an area whose median ran in the mid-200 thousands.

 

For a solid two days, Jordan was able to enjoy her good fortune--a chance to start over new after her messy divorce in a new state far away from where she was. She walked the expanse of the estate, taking note of the greying, crooked barn to the back of the property, leading out to the empty stables and muddied pig-pen, old farm equipment scattered haphazardly on every inch of shelving or bench space across the property.

 

A tool shed in the back of the house housed a horde of peculiar rusty gadgets: barbed wire, bear traps, hammers, screwdrivers, hand saws, and all sorts of blades, among other things, hung upon the back wall with some sort of care. They filled the far wall, save a solitary, sizable empty gap.

 

The house itself was in desperate need of repair between the broken planks of wood on the front porch, peeling, yellowing paint, and severely out-of-date interior. She'd wandered the cold, drafty floors, not minding the gritty-looking, cracking wallpaper or the crooked staircase, elated at her opportunity for her fresh start.

 

But, on that third morning, before Jordan had even made it halfway through her first cup of tea, a series of hurried knocks resounded from behind the front door.  

 

Grumbling, Jordan shuffled across the hardwood in her shaggy, pink slippers and mismatched pajamas, toting her tea along with her. She hadn't been there long enough to make any new acquaintances in the small town and the Sawyer property was shoved so far in the outskirts, far back against the thick woods, she had absolutely no idea who it could be.

 

The solid door swung back with a languid creak, revealing a disheveled man with dark circles around his eyes that nearly looked like bruises. His hair stuck up impossibly straight on one side, as if he'd fallen asleep in a puddle of glue, and his monochromatic, patchy clothes were crooked and wrinkled. His hands were quivering ever so slightly as he white-knuckled an umber accordion folder at his chest.

 

Jordan raised her eyebrows skeptically, placing her hand on the door in case she needed to slam it shut again. "Uh, hi?"

 

The man's eyes widened fractionally, staring silently for a moment before regaining his composure. "It is true then," he muttered as if he was speaking to himself. "Someone did buy this place--you bought this place." He shook his head, extending one arm out. "Jordan Jones? I'm Doctor Howard Roster. Do you have a moment?"

 

Inching the door closer to her body, Jordan dubiously eyed the stranger, ignoring his outstretched hand. He didn't look like a doctor. The khaki ensemble made him look more like a custodian than anything. "What do you want?"

 

He slowly withdrew his hand to his body, face faltering as he stood awkwardly on the porch. "I...I think you might be in danger."

 

Alarms went off inside Jordan's head.  Stepping back, she attempted to shove the door closed, hindered by the booted foot that had slipped across the threshold.

 

"No, wait!"

 

Not waiting to hear what Roster had to say, Jordan hurried back to the kitchen, her mug slipping from her fingers in the process and falling to the floor--shattering it.  She grabbed the phone from its cradle as she swung around the corner into the pantry, throwing the flimsy door shut behind her.

 

_Stupid, stupid, stupid!_  she chastised herself, pushing her back up against the door, effectively trapping herself.

 

With numb, shaking fingers she hit the power button, her thunderous heartbeat coming to a halt as she realized that the power still hadn't been turned on. The wireless never charged.

 

_Tap! Tap!_

 

Jordan started at the polite knocking, dropping the phone as she jumped.

 

"I'm sorry!" Roster said, hurriedly. "I didn't mean to scare you! We need to talk."

 

"I'm not coming out!" Jordan hissed, pressing her weight more heavily against the door. "Go away!"

 

There was a pregnant pause.

 

The doorknob turned gently and Jordan's breath hitched, realizing her error far too late. The door swung away from her body, causing her to topple out onto the tiled kitchen floor.

 

" _Oh_!" Roster stumbled backwards in surprise. "Are--are you alright? I didn't realize..."

 

Jordan scrambled to her feet, grabbing the edge of the counter for support as her slippered feet slid across the slick surface in her haste, panicking Roster managing to creep up behind her. Hurriedly, she yanked open one of the draws, retrieving a kitchen knife from its contents as she was backed into a corner.

 

" _Stay away_!" she warned, holding it threatening out before her, trembling even as Roster paused, holding the folders before him like a shield.

 

He stepped back, blinking several times in succession as he watched her. "Take it easy! What are you doing?"

 

"What am  _I_  doing? What are  _you_  doing? Get  _out_ of my house!"

 

Roster sighed, appearing torn. After a moment, he relented, stepping carefully away from her. "Alright," he sighed, setting the folder on the counter as he retreated from the kitchen. "But read those...and call me as soon as you do. My card is inside."

 

He cast her a final, regretful glance before disappearing from the room.

 

Jordan remained, motionless, in the corner until she heard the front door close again. One, she counted, two...three. Swiftly, she hurried to the door, turning the lock and sliding the deadbolt before collapsing to the ground behind it.

 

She gasped, trying to slow her breathing as she curled up into a ball on the cold floor, knife still clenched in her fist.

 

* * *

 

_15 April, 2018_

_North Haddonfield, Illinois_

_The Sawyer Estates_

 

It took Jordan a full twenty-seven hours before her curiosity overtook her.

 

She'd pulled every piece of paper from the accordion folder, splaying them out on her kitchen table, sorting them in chronological order according to the dates.

 

There were newspaper clippings of a Sheriff's daughter found dead at the residence of a Verna Sawyer in Texas, patient documents of a Jackson Himmerson from a mental institution called Gorman House Youth Reformery; more newspaper clippings--a patient riot and full-scale escape from the Gorman House, multiple reports of dismembered bodies and gruesome ‘works of art' of grave-robbed bodies propped in public areas on display, the obituaries of dozens of people, missing reports, and, most disturbingly, a couple police reports of a crime scene at Verna Sawyer's residence.

 

A teenager named Sally Hardesty filed a police report depicting a horrific tale of kidnap, torture, disfigurement,  murder, and cannibalism.

 

Jordan's stomach churned as she read over each report.

 

A team of investigators went to the Sawyer house, only to be met with gunfire. A lethal showdown eliminated the Sawyer family, with the exception of a Jedidiah Sawyer, whose body was never found.

 

Another police report detailed an investigation of the Sawyer Estates, her new home. The former owner, Meredith Sawyer was Jedidiah's relative.

 

"His aunt," Jordan said, absently, cold sweat breaking out across her brow.  _Cannibalism...murder...torture. His aunt._

 

No evidence was found that Jedidiah was anywhere in Illinois, so the case was dropped, leaving police with a cold trail in Texas.

 

The final clipping was Meredith's obituary, leaving behind no surviving relatives.

 

Dry-mouthed and disoriented, Jordan grabbed her keys from the glass dish on the counter. She willed her feet to walk as quickly as they would go, slowed by nerves that rattled her entire body. She fumbled with the handle of her small sedan, slipping in the driver's seat and sped down the long driveway.

 

After a few miles, her phone finally pinged--she didn't get reception that far back...not for at least five miles in any given direction. Not bothering to pull over on the sparsely-traveled dirt road, Jordan hit the breaks a little too forcefully, causing the car to skid to a stop.

 

She dialed the numbers on the card, quaking as she waited through the rings.

 

"Hello, this is Doctor Ros--"

 

"What the fuck!"

 

"...Jordan?"

 

"What the  _fuck_!"

 

"You read the files, I take it?"

 

Jordan bit her lip, willing her nerves to ease to no avail. "Why in Holy Hell would you give me those? Who _are_  you?"

 

There was a pause on the phone broken with a shuffling sound, as if he was walking. "I worked as an intern under Doctor Lang," he said, "at the Gorman House."

 

"And?"

 

"Jackson's file I sent you... do you know the one?"

 

"Yes."

 

"Jackson is Jedidiah Sawyer. He's dangerous. I have reason to believe that he's been living at the Sawyer Estates, Jordan. It isn't safe."

 

"The--the police report said--"

 

"I know. I think they missed something. Meredith must have...she must have hidden him...  Look, can we meet?"

 

* * *

 

_Wednesday, 31 October 2018_

_Haddonfield, Illinois_

 

_Haddonfield Elementary School_

 

"Miss Jones!" Abigail Reid, a short redheaded girl with braided pigtails, stood on the other side of Jordan's desk, holding a, colorful paper plate scarecrow, smiling proudly. "Look! I finished it!"

 

Letting out a breath she didn't realize she was holding, Jordan mustered up a smile for the girl. "Wow," Jordan whistled, appreciatively, "That is a fantastic scarecrow."

 

The students finished up, one-by-one, discussing their plans for Halloween night. Ian and Chris Donaldson had their heads leaned into one another in the classroom aise, projects aside, heartedly debating which route they should take first for the best candy.

 

"Mr. Wilkerson gives out full-sized candy bars," Ian insisted.

 

Chris shook his head, a serious expression crossing his face. "Yeah, but everyone else on that block gives out the cheap candies! If we start on the Robinson's block, we'll be able to bank a better candy load per area canvassed. We're going to need to be as efficient as possible this year."

 

Jordan bit back a laugh, glancing at the clock again. Nearly there.

 

"Just don't let the  _the Shape_ get you!" Krista Parsons keened, wiggling her fingers spookily in the air.  "It's Myers night again!  _Scree, scree, scree, screee_!"

 

"That music doesn't play when you get murdered in real life, dummy!" Nate Vandenberg said.

 

"I'm not a dummy;  _you're_ a dummy!"

 

"That's enough," Jordan said, warningly, moving from her desk to stand in front of the children. "You shouldn't speak to each other that way!" She shivered, wondering what it was about the people in this town and their fascination with murderers. "And enough of Michael Myers--you know that's a myth don't you?"

 

"But it's not!" Abigail protested. "I lived next door to Tommy Doyle a couple years ago when the Shape came for the Strode girl." Her face turned a shade of pale as she locked eyes with Jordan. "They shot him. A lot. And he just...got back up."

 

The girl's gaze held steady for a moment until--

 

_Briiiiiinnnnnggg!_

 

\--the final bell sounded, and Abigail turned away to gather her books.

 

Jordan shook of the chill running along her spine and sighed. "Have a good night, kiddos! Stay safe and don't eat too much candy, please! We have class tomorrow--same time, same place!" She waved goodbye, waiting for the last of them to shuffle out of the classroom.

* * *

 

_Do-do-doo..._

 

The telltale falling tone of the cellphone's signal being dropped echoed from the passenger seat as Jordan cruised along the windy backroads. The shadows of the tall white oaks, donning their autumn coats of orange foliage, had already begun casting shadows across the road as the sun sank lower in the sky.

 

25 miles from the school to her house and another 125 or so to Smith's Grove Sanitarium--where she was meant to meet Roster. His text seemed short and urgent but he refused to say what he wanted to meet about until they were face-to-face.

 

It's not as if Jordan hadn't heard all of his crazy theories before. In the months since they'd last met, they spent a great deal of time talking about Jedidiah Sawyer and searching every inch of the Estates to ensure that nobody was hanging around uninvited. And, despite the number of times a cut of meat would disappear from the freezer or how many times she swore something was misplaced or moved, she was certain that nobody had been taking up residence in the house.

 

Roster, on the other hand, would not let it go.

 

And, so, instead of curling up on her couch and marathoning horror films on Netflix as she graded homework assignments alone in her pajamas, she would be spending Halloween night driving to the Sanitarium. Again.

 

Out of the corner of her eye, Jordan caught a flash of white.

 

Swerving hard to the left to avoid the animal, she hit the breaks, bracing herself as the car careened dangerously close the the downward-sloping embankment, coming to a stop just short of a rollover.

 

Her eyes were drawn to the rearview mirror despite believing that she didn't hit whatever it was that'd stepped out into the road, just to be sure. Instead of a deer, like she'd initially thought it was, a man stood behind her in the road, watching her through an expressionless white mask.

 

She shivered, locked in a staring contest through the mirror. "What kind of moron runs around in the woods dressed in their Halloween costume?" she muttered, easing the car forward again to continue her drive home.

 

* * *

 

Jordan juggled her bag of binders, purse, and coffee mug as she awkwardly unlocked the door, one knee raised in the air to help support the bags. Stumbling through the foyer, she shuffled to the kitchen, where she dumped everything blindly on the table.

 

She only had a few minutes to get changed and back on the road if she was going to meet Roster in time.  Hustling, she managed to dig a pair of jeans and her favorite, silky long-sleeve from the pile of clean laundry and throw herself together, slapping play on the blinking answering machine as she passed by it.

 

_"Hey, JJ!"_

 

The sound of her brother Rick's voice coming from the machine caused her to chuckle as she made her way back to the kitchen to search for her keys.

 

"I have a surprise for you! Mason finally managed to get some time off of work--so we're heading over this weekend to finally see your new place!"

 

_"Surprise!"_  Mason, Rick's husband, sang in the background of the message.

 

_"We'll be there for an entire week, so, do us a favor and clean out a guest room, huh?_

_"Love ya, JJ--"_

_"Call me!"_

_"Call us back when you can."_

 

_Beep!_

 

Standing at the kitchen table again, Jordan's grin slowly vanished. Her shoulders hunched and rounded with tension. On top of her pile of bags sat a bouquet of wilting black-eyed susans, mud-clumped roots still attached.

 

She swallowed dryly. Someone was in the house.


	2. I Remember Halloween

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jordan visit's Roster at the Sanitarium and meets Doctor Loomis. Strange things start happening around the house.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Still experimenting with onomatopoeia (because I hate myself, apparently).
> 
> Chapter Warnings: past mentions of torture/abuse, violence

 

_ “Candy Apples and Razor Blades-- _ _   
_ _ Little Dead are Soon in Graves” _

 

Wednesday, 31 October 2018   
Haddonfield, Illinois

 

_ The Sawyer Estates _

 

Jordan placed her hands on her hips as she stared Officer Roth down, who let out an exasperated sigh. “Someone was in my home!” she persisted.

 

Roth shook his head, gesturing behind him at the face of the paint-chipped, fading house. “We’ve searched the whole place, Miss Jones,” he held three fingers in the air between them, “ _ three _ times on this call alone. We’ve  _ been _ searching this property, time and again, ever since we’d gotten the tip about the Sawyer man. There hasn’t been any indication that anyone here that wasn’t supposed to be here in the five years we’ve been looking, and there isn’t now.” 

 

Stomach churning unpleasantly as her heart sank, Jordan waved the Roth off. “But the  _ flowers _ \--”

 

“Look, Miss Jones…” the officer trailed off, rubbing the back of his head. His mouth twisted in uncertainty as he watched her. “I’ve read your files about the Psych facility back in Florida and, don’t get me wrong or anything--”

 

“This is  _ not  _ in my head!”

 

“--but I think that maybe you’d outta think about getting some help.” He gave her a sympathetic look that fueled a repressed rage inside of Jordan. “Doctor Lennox at the Memorial Hospital--”

 

Jordan crossed her arms over her chest, fighting the feeling inside of her that was pulling her into herself--the one that made her feel like she was going fold into her own body, turning her inside out and back again. “I don’t need a psychiatrist,” she muttered.

 

“--has done great work and, quite frankly, it’s not going to take much more of this for the department to file a recommendation with the school board for psychiatric counselling.”

 

Images bombarded her--

 

The cool concrete of the basement landing against her cheek, rubbed raw from the abrasive surface, had been a sleepy peace until the light seeping through the door bent beneath a brutal shadow.  Ropes pulled tightly around her wrists and ankles, biting unforgivingly into the tender flesh, pulling almost too painfully far. The malign glint from the silver blade and the rattle of husky laughter sent Jordan’s insides 

 

A hand on her shoulder soothed her out of her nightmare, trembling and sweating, and back into reality.  “And, for the love of God, stop talking to Roster--man’s crazier than a zebra in running in the Preakness.” 

 

_ Is it in my head? _ Jordan stood silently as the police cruiser rolled down her winding driveway, glaring through its clear rear window. “It can’t be,” she said, her whisper lost to the breeze. 

 

* * *

 

 

_ Smith’s Grove Sanitarium _

 

Jordan’s mind was still reeling when she pulled into the visitor’s lot of the Sanitarium.  Dusk had already fallen over the trimmed yard of the main entrance, only illuminated by the pale lights pouring from large, barred windows. 

 

_ Bah-bing!  _ Jordan’s phone beeped with yet another text from Roster. She was running over two hours late after having waited for Roth to show up and then waiting again for the officers to canvass the house and property. 

 

She forced herself into a haze of existence, floating thoughtlessly passed the loud buzzing as the doors were opened; barely taking note of the pen in her hand as she signed in on the tablet and the mocking smile of the plastic, candy-toting Jack-O-Lantern on the receptionist's desk; ignoring the shuffle of nurses and doctors and patients; pressing back those memories beneath the sterile smell and harsh fluorescence. 

 

_ I’m not losing it.  _ Jordan padded down the narrow hall of offices, focusing on her breathing.  _ I wasn’t then. I’m not now. _

 

_ I hope _ .

 

“I’m telling you,” said a voice that poured from Roster’s ajar door. “Michael has been waiting for Laurie to come back to Haddonfield and you’ve had her transferred right back here!”

 

Jordan paused, peering through the crack to see who was in the room but the angle didn’t allow for it. She leaned in to listen as a female began speaking. 

 

“Doctor Loomis,” she began, authoritatively, “East Maloine transferred her  _ back _ after a budget cut--they’ve referred all of the transfers they’ve had in the past four years back to the origin facilities. We weren’t left with much of a choice--at least temporarily.”

 

“She doesn’t belong here,” Loomis snapped. “She’s in danger and she certainly doesn’t belong in a sanitarium.” 

 

Roster hummed, sounding a bit distant from the conversation. “Strode began exhibiting similar symptoms as her brother,” there was a shuffling of paper, “might be...genetic?”

 

“The main concern, of course, is the violent outburst to which Myers was prone.”

 

“That is ridiculous,” Loomis insisted. “There’s nothing  _ wrong _ with Laurie Strode. Michael Myers--”

 

“--is  _ dead _ , Doctor Loomis,” the woman cut in.

 

The room grew eerily silent for a moment before someone cleared their throat. “Well, if that’s all…” Roster trailed off, an air of finality about it.

 

Jordan stumbled backwards as the door opened suddenly, revealing a thin-lipped woman with shiny auburn hair. 

 

She paused, eyeing Jordan appraisingly and narrowed her eyes. “Can I help you with something?” Her crisp, clinical voice wasn’t dissimilar to any other doctor she’d met--save, maybe, the eccentric Roster--complete with an undertone of hidden agendas and weighted questions. 

 

“Ah, Jordan!” Roster said from behind the woman. “You’ve finally made it! Come in, come in.”

 

The woman stepped aside, allowing Jordan to force a smile and slip into the office that was overcrowded with oversized furniture and messied stacks of books and papers. 

 

Roster made a show of introducing Jordan to Doctor Loomis as Roth cast one last glance towards the room and walked away in an echo the fading  _ tap, tap, taps _ of Oxford heels on vinyl tile.  As the footsteps became faint, Roster’s voice quieted. “Jordan is the new owner of the Sawyer Estates.”

 

Doctor Loomis regarded her distractedly, placing his hands on his balding head in distress. “Sawyer Estates? You don’t think…?”

 

Roster shrugged. “I’m still in firm belief that Jedidiah Sawyer is hiding somewhere on the Estates. I wouldn't be surprised if Myers was seeking refuge there, too, just until he could track down his sister.”

 

Shaking his head, Loomis said, “No, people like Myers and people like Sawyer couldn’t possibly be living together.”

 

“Isn’t Michael Myers an urban legend?” Jordan asked. “I mean, I know that he existed and killed his sister, but isn’t his ‘return’ just a tall tale?”

 

Both men stopped to look at Jordan, confusing etching there features.

 

“Of course not,” Loomis said. “What is  _ wrong _ with the people in this town?”

 

“It’s just...I overhead some of the children at school talking about him and when I asked a couple of the teachers--”

 

“Michael Myers escaped Smith’s Grove four years ago,” Roster explained, calmly  _ tap, tap, tapping  _ on his keyboard as he nodded at the monitor. 

 

Loomis rounded on Jordan so quickly that she stepped back in surprise. “I’m sure you’ve heard the story: he murdered his sister as a child and was brought here…to the Juvenile Ward” His eyes grew distant as he spoke as if he was looking though Jordan. “He’s not...not  _ right _ . He was nothing more than a shell of a person when I’d met him. I’d never seen a child so  _ emotionless _ and his eyes, these  _ empty _ , black eyes...it might as well have been the devil staring at me through this child.  I spent eight years trying to reach him, and then another seven trying to keep him locked up, because I realized that what was living behind that boy's eyes was purely and simply... evil.*

 

“And then he escaped. 

 

“He just seemed to come to one night before I’d arrived...completely snapped out of his catatonia and opened some of the other patient’s doors. When I made it, there were patients all over the yard and that’s when he made off with my vehicle.

 

“He went after Laurie Strode, the youngest sister who had been put up for adoption and killed several people that night. He’s not going to  _ stop _ until Laurie is dead.”

 

Jordan swallowed thickly. “So, he’s real then? And...at my house?”

 

“No, I don’t think so,” Roster said. “Not if Sawyer is there anyway.”

 

“The empty Sawyer Estates is the only place that makes sense...somewhere to hide for so long.” Loomis shot back.

 

“Someone left flowers on my table,” Jordan mumbled, interrupting the impending argument. “ _ Someone _ is in my house and I don’t care which psychopathic  it is--”

 

“Psychopath doesn’t begin to cover it,” Roster mumbled. 

 

“--but I want them  _ out _ . The police said--”

 

Roster laughed. “You went to the police again? They never listen.”

“--that they couldn’t find anyone in the house. I left my bag in the kitchen, got changed, and by the time I got back  _ someone had left flowers on it _ .” Jordan crossed her arms over her body, becoming uncomfortable as both doctors regarded her with identical levels of confusion on their faces. “I feel like I’m losing my mind.”

 

Loomis was the first to speak. “Flowers?” he asked. “You--you’re worried about  _ flowers? _ ” He threw his hands in the air, lost in exasperation. 

 

“Are you certain you don’t have a secret admirer, Jordan?” Roster asked.

 

“Secret--” Jordan scoffed. “Are you  _ kidding  _ me right now? Someone is... _ was _ ...in my house!”

 

_ Brrriiiing! Brrriiiing! Brrriiing! _

 

The shrill calling of Jordan’s cell caused her to jump slightly, breaking the tension that was welling inside of her.  _ Of course, _ she thought bitterly,  _ not even Roster will take me seriously. _

 

Pulling her cell out of her bag, she glanced down at the number.

 

_ Brrriiiing! Brrriiiing! Brrriiing! _

 

_ 1-844-555-0101 _

 

_ Brrriiing! Brrriiiing! Brrriiiing! _

 

It was her home phone.

 

Numb fingers pressed to answer and raised the cell to her ear. “Hello?”

 

_ THUD! _

 

The loud sound rang in her ears, then shuffling, and finally ragged, heavy hissing of uneven breathing on the other end. Something rattled from inside Jordan, transforming in her mind to memories.

 

_ “You’ll never leave me.” Excited words came in harsh whispers. “You’re mine.” Breathless from anticipation, from enjoying his own sick mind games. _

 

_ “Mine.” _

 

_ Blood seeped across cold steel, dripping soundlessly to the floor.  _

 

__ “Mine.”   
  
  


The phone  _  clicked _ and Jordan shook the memories from her head. The silence on the other end of the line was enough. She was  _ not _ going to go home alone tonight, especially because, if she did, she would not be home alone.

 

* * *

 

 

Jordan stood beside Roster and Loomis, listening their quiet argument of whether or not they should be here, with Laurie Strode, or investigate the peculiarities at the Sawyer Estates. Roster argued that if either Jedidiah Sawyer or Michael Myers were hiding out at Jordan’s house, it would be best to spread out and do another thorough search because there must be  _ something _ that was missing. Loomis, on the other hand, thought that it would be a waste of time searching the Estates if Myers was going to return to try to Laurie. 

 

“It’ll be tonight, on Halloween, if he does,” Loomis said, anxiously. “Now that we know he’s after Laurie, he’ll be back on the anniversary of Judith Myers murder. He won’t stop until he’s killed them all.”

 

“If it’s  _ either _ of them,  _ Jordan’s _ in danger. Do you think either of them will hesitate to kill  _ her _ ?”

 

Loomis folded his arms in front of his chest. “Well, they haven’t yet.”

 

“Yet.”

 

Jordan’s stomach hit the floor.  _ Yet _ .

 

She was  _ not _ going to be the victim of someone’s psychotic games. Not again. “I’m not going back there by myself,” she said. “Not after someone called me from  _ inside my house _ . And the flowers--”

 

“Again with the flowers?” Roster scoffed.

 

“Someone is inside my house!” Frustration filled Jordan. It was the same frustration she had when  _ he _ kept slipping away from the police after she’d escaped for  _ nine  _ full months. Nine months of filled with dread and anger that he was going to show up and finish her off this time. It was the way she felt when, even after being caught, he smiled at her in the courtroom, as if he’d just gone away on vacation and was excited to see his wife again. It was the same type of frustration she felt every time the local police came to the Sawyer estate and told her she was being paranoid.

 

“Look, since that guy--” she nodded her head at Loomis, who raised his eyebrows at her, “wants to stay here, why doesn’t he? And then at least you could come back with me and then everyone is covered?”

 

The two men shared a silent moment of consideration before Loomis finally spoke. “That does make the most sense.” He glanced between Jordan and Roster gravely. “If it is Michael...I don’t know how to kill him--to stop him. He’s taken gunshots and stood back up from it. Be careful.”  


 

* * *

 

 

_ The Sawyer Estates _

 

The heavy front door swung open with an unearthly groan, the weight pulling against the too-old hinges whose eerie protest sent chills racing up Jordan’s spine. Taking great care as to not make any further noise so as not to alert any potential serial killers hiding out in her house, she took slow, tentative steps with Roster bringing up the rear, treading just as carefully.

 

It didn’t take more than a few paces into the house to realize that something was amiss.

 

No. Not  _ something _ .

 

Everything.

 

Beyond the foyer, Jordan could see that the couch had been moved--shoved to touch the far wall as flush as possible to open up the middle of the room, unfolded clothes and all. In fact, Jordan could see the room quite well, despite the darkness outside, because of the remarkable display of candles, alight with flickering flames that danced in an imperceivable draft.  They were everywhere--along the floorboards, on the sills, on the mantle and coffee table.

 

It was a wonder the house hadn’t burnt to the ground.

 

“Been redecorating?” To Jordan, Roster’s uneasy, joking whisper sounded closer to a shout through the tension swirling around the room. She was sure that it had broken the atmosphere and prepared herself for the catastrophic after-effects that were sure to follow.

 

But nothing happened. 

 

Stepping further into the room, Jordan noticed the carpet--or, rather, the that was  _ on  _ the carpet.  More candles were carefully placed between purposefully deposited  _ bones _ \--small, cleaned and bleached a hauntingly beautiful white--all to form a poorly-crafted heart, uneven at the sides and lumpy around the curves. Laid directly in the center was the bouquet from earlier, the wilting flower petals seeming much less sinister now in comparison to their surroundings.

 

A hand on her shoulder sent her stumbling to the side, knocking over a candle in her wake, whose flame drown in its own wax as it toppled over. 

 

“Easy!” Roster said. “It’s still just me.”

 

“Does this remind you of anything?” Jordan gestured to the room, hoping that Roster would be able to at least identify who was in the house by their strange display. Somehow, she hoped that knowing who it was would help them.

 

Roster stooped low, examining the catastrophe in her living room with an unwarranted appreciative and quizzical face. “A bit, actually. It’s rather interesting, really.” It was as if he was speaking more to himself than Jordan at this point, mumbling and humming as he prodded at a few of the bones. “During the Sawyer families reign, corpses would pop up around town from grave robberies. The strange thing was that they would be dismantled and put back together -- displayed as art.”

 

“Art,” Jordan scoffed, her stomach churning. “Yeah, I remember that from the newspaper clippings.”

 

“When they raided the house, hidden in the basement where they found…” Standing, Roster shook off whatever haunting memories had begun plaguing him.  “Well, that’s not important. But there were hordes of intricately-weaved ‘pieces of art’ made from the bones and skin of the victims. Jedidiah Sawyer had a knack for making artwork from human remains.”

 

“Are...are those  _ human _ bones?” Bile quickly rose up Jordan’s throat, leaving a burning trail behind. 

 

Roster shook his head. “No, they’re more likely to be something closer to squirrels or birds -- I’m not really all that sure. I mean, I’m no anthropologist, but those are awfully small to be human remains, aren’t they?”

 

Jordan reached for the phone on one of the relocated side tables, her hands beginning to tremble. “I’m calling the police.”

 

Roster began slowly following the trail of candles towards the kitchen. “What are  _ they  _ going to do? Come and search the property again? Accuse us of being crazy again?”

 

“I don’t care,” she snapped, clicking the receiver on and punching in the numbers to the local police. “Where are you going? We should leave!” She waited impatiently as the line rang, glancing between Roster, who was ignoring her, and the still-open door. 

 

_ “Haddonfield Police Department. Please hold.” _

 

“Hold? Hold! What kind of Police Department--”

 

“ _ If this is an emergency, please hang up and dial 9-1-1 for emergency services. Please hold while--” _

 

_ Beep! _

 

Jordan hung up, rolling her eyes, before phoning 911 and following after Roster, who had already disappeared around the corner to the small kitchen. 

 

_ “911, what’s your emergency?” _

 

“Yes, hello? Hi! This is Jordan J--”   
  


_ Click.  _ The kitchen light blinked off along with the digital clock display on the stove.  
  
  
Her eyes widened at the dull sound of the line being disconnected. “Hello? Hello!” 

 

“He...cut the power?” Roster was standing at the pantry, peering through the opened door. “Does your fuse box happen to be in your...second basement?”

 

“Second basement?” Jordan peered over his shoulder and into the cramped pantry. A portion of the wall had been slid to the side, allowing for the candles to continue on down a narrow staircase and disappear around a sharp corner. 

 

Roster nodded, his face finally reflecting the gravity of the situation. “A wine cellar, most likely. But the last time we searched the house, I remember the fuse box in the basement...the regular basement...right?”

 

_ Screeetch. Clang! Creeeaak.  _

 

Jordan jumped, stepping away from the pantry and the noises below. “He’s  _ down  _ there?” she whispered, heart hammering in her chest and panic beginning to cause her breath to come in short, stunted bursts.

 

“I would think so. Only,” he glanced at Jordan warily over his shoulder, “if he’s down there...who’s in the basement with the fusebox?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Title and Quote: lyrics from Halloween by the Misfits
> 
> *quote: paraphrased quote from the original Halloween movie


	3. He Used to Call Me...Deadly Nightshade

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have terrible self-discipline and even worse time-management skills. As an apology, here is chapter three.
> 
> Lyrics at the beginning and chapter title are from Lena Del Rey's “Ultraviolence”.

_ Cause I was filled with poison _

_ But blessed with beauty and rage _ __   
  
  


Wednesday, 31 October 2018   
North Haddonfield, Illinois

 

_ The Sawyer Estates _

 

Roster pushed the door to the pantry closed and slowly backed away, uncertainty clouding his eyes as he scanned the room. “Er -- help me move this table?”

 

Jordan hardly heard him over the distressing  _ thump, thump, thump _ of her rapidly-beating heart. She was frozen, her limbs felt heavy as her muscles constricted with fear. Her eyes traveled along the glossy surface of the heavy, wooden table before settling back on Roster. “W-why?” she whispered. 

 

Instead of an answer, Roster just nodded to the pantry door. Lifting one end of the table, he waited for Jordan to take the other side before they carefully carried it to block the door. 

 

“Now what?”

 

“Keys,” he whispered. He pressed one of his hands against her shoulder after she snatched her bag from the tabletop and led her numbed body back through the living room.

 

They were leaving, Jordan realized with a breath of relief.  Having seen far too many horror flicks to know better, she internally chastised herself for freezing up.  _ ‘My life practically  _ is _ a horror film,’ _ she mused, bitterly, her mind wandering to Roster. If they  _ had _ been in a movie, Roster would’ve told her to wait while he braved the wine cellar solo, only to be immediately offed by the killer and she would either back into a second killer upstairs or eventually wander down the stairs after him. Either way, it would result in a thirty-five-minute chase scene through the woods before she’d inevitably succumb to the same fate.

 

_ Roooooooooaaaaaaannnn _ !

 

The sound of the front door opening both startled her out of her daydream and sent a series of chills up her spine.

 

_ ‘Good,’ _ she thought as a settling reprieve continuing to make her breaths come a little easier.  _ ‘We’ll get to the car and drive to the police station… They  _ have _ to believe us this time.’ _

 

She stood behind Roster, scanning the room behind her as she (rather impatiently) waited for him to move forward.

 

Only, he didn’t.

 

The first oddity she saw when she turned back around was the blood seeping through the cotton threads of Roster’s shirt, the second was the barely audible, gurgled gasp of a sound that came from the man and caused Jordan’s heartbeat to stop altogether.

 

Roster crumpled to the floor with a  _ thump _ as his body made contact with the unforgiving ground. Where he stood was a man, dressed in a fading, tattered, threadbare jumpsuit. Dark eyes bore through a ghastly while mask, staring so intently that it pierced through whatever was left of Jordan’s revere. Light from one of the flickering candles glinted off the silvery, bloodied kitchen knife clenched hauntingly in his readied fist. 

 

Like any frightened animal, she was frozen, muscles tensed and filled with the adrenaline her body had blessed her with so that she may flee at the first sign that her predator might pursue. It was the mildest of moments -- a slight inclination of his masked head, no more than a twitch -- that sprung her body into action. 

 

With legs still feeling laden and groggy, Jordan jolted, spinning around in a fluid motion. She was guiltily thankful that Roser’s body ( _ dead? Dying? In need of immediate help?) _ acted as at least some type of obstacle between her and the knife-wielding maniac. 

 

Thoughts of Roster were short-lived, at best, as she scrambled across the disturbing array of artwork still scattered about her carpet, uncaring of what was knocked over in her wake. 

 

She thrust the window open (the closest escape she could find) and glanced back over her shoulder.

 

A spilt candle’s flame began running up the thin fabric of the doily run on her coffee table. The man in the doorway hadn’t moved. Instead, he stood -- watching. The orange glow from the flames began casting eerily across the white mask as he tilted his head again (barely a fraction). A shiver ran through her and she climbed through the window, not wanting to stick around to see what he would do next. 

 

There was a significant drop from the ledge of the window to the grassy earth below that was already being shadowed over by the impending dusk that was settling over the estate. She blamed her landing on the combination of her skyrocketing blood pressure and the uneven weight of her bag on her shoulder when she lost her balance.

 

The sudden, sharp pain in her ankle as it rolled went mostly unnoticed in her haste to her car. 

 

Jordan’s quaking hands had completely gone numb by the time she shakily pressed the key into the ignition, her breathing still ragged even as the engine turned over, purring in the otherwise silent night. 

 

Thoughts bombarded her on  _ who _ would want to murder Roster, who -- by all accounts -- was harmless, save his obsession with Jedidiah Sawyer.  _ Was that him?  _ she wondered, white-knuckling the steering wheel, peeling out of her parking spot.  _ It had to be _ . The pictures didn’t match -- the mask; it didn’t  _ look _ like human skin, not that Jordan had paid enough attention to his face.  _ Who else? _

 

Memories bombarded her, agitating her already dissolving demeanor.

 

* * *

  
  


Monday, 18 February 2013

Ridgebay Peak, Florida

 

_ Jordan’s House _

 

The problem with marrying a poet was that poet’s are good with words. They’re masters at crafting beautiful, tangible fantasties that sweep can sweep you away in hopeless, elegant wisps. They can also twist those words, transforming them into festering creatures that spin circles around you until your so confused, so disoriented that you start believing them. Poets are harbingers who can choose to reign the sunshine and starlight and extinguish them at will, just when you’re feeling secure enough that their luminance will guide you through the night. Then, once you’re lost, they incite the floods to drown you, only to lift your head above water long enough to remind you that it is _your fault_ before submerging you again.

 

Jordan’s husband was a poet. They met in the springtime and were married by the fall. At first, his manic ups and downs seemed mostly normal -- they were mere mood swings, harmless and quelled with a bit of time and space.  It was easy enough for her to sneak away in the times that his mind turned violent, telling herself that it was something that would pass, that his harsh obloquy was a symptom of his dejection. 

 

It was when his hands began turning violent that Jordan decided she had enough.

 

That Monday evening marked the first night she was officially free, the paperwork finalized in a divorce that took far too long. The cool air of late winter didn’t penetrate her home in what felt like the first time in a long time.  Her herbal tea sat tepid and untouched on the coffee table while her mind was taken hostage by a copy of S. L. Grey’s  _ The Ward _ . 

 

While the wind whistled lowly outside, rustling the bushes and trees and whatever stray piece of rubbish happened to be rolling around in her backyard at the moment, she swore that every now and again, there was a peculiar sound. A sort of  _ screeee-clunk _ coming from the kitchen. At first, Jordan brushed it off as her imagination, running wildly away while she read a book that was too startling at such a late hour.  When it continued, however, every now and again, she gradually became less certain of her paranoia. 

 

Her cell may have been teetering on the edge of being out-of-date but the flashlight still worked. Flicking on the light was the first thing Jordan did when she rose from her small oasis on the couch, resolving to investigate. There was no need to turn on the lights; it was too late and the noise was nothing--what would the neighbors think of the new divorcee who always turned her lights on at ungodly hours of the night?

 

Everything seemed more threatening by the flashlight’s dim beam, causing long shadows to spread, distorted across uneven surfaces. As she crossed the threshold from the carpeted hallway to the linoleum on the kitchen floor that she’d been meaning to upgrade, her own footsteps unnerved her.  _ Pat-pat. Pat-pat.  _

 

_ Screeee-clunk! _

 

Jordan froze, shining the light around in a wild attempt to find the noise. Reflecting across the surface of the glossy countertop and travelling to the sink, she paused, watching the window above the sink wobble slightly before creaking open ( _ screeee _ ) and slamming back against the sill ( _ clunk _ ).

 

She released the breath she didn’t realize she was holding and pulled the window closed, securing the latch.  _ That’s odd _ , she thought.  _ Why was the window open? _

 

_ Pat _ .  _ Pat _ \-- _ pat. _

 

Her breath caught in her throat when she heard the footsteps behind her. Slowly, she turned her head, only to find herself face-to-face with her now ex-husband.

 

“Hello, darling,” he crooned, a formidable smirk curling the corners of his lip.

 

* * *

  
  


Wednesday, 31 October 2018   
North Haddonfield, Illinois

 

_ The Sawyer Estates _

 

A large figure lumbered out from the treeline, distracting Jordan’s still racing mind from her memory. She stomped down on the breaks in a panic, the damp gravel beneath the tires causing the old car to slide forward, skidding to a halt just before the impending obstacle. 

 

_ Smack! _

 

She jumped as a hand came down on the hood of the car and a face starting taking shape. Another mask, she realized, this one just as terrifying as the last. Pulled thinly across a man’s face, cracking and peeling away around the lips and eyes, the leather was  _ too _ delicate, too old.  Dark stitches ran along the contours of his cheeks, sweeping up along his hairline. 

 

With a disgruntled, animalistic sound, the burly gargantua smacked the car again, his oversized fingers curling inward to make a fist. 

 

The front of the car dipped forward momentarily before bouncing back to where it was. It was then that Jordan noticed the yellow body of a chainsaw in his other hand. As he moved, still with the saw at his side, her car’s headlights caught the metallic guide bar, which reflected too brightly back at her. 

 

Her mouth went dry.  _ This _ was Jedidiah Sawyer, she realized with a strained, audible gasp, and the man in the house was not her ex, it was Michael Myers. Her eyes began to water as she pulled the wheel to the right, stepping on the accelerator again as she drove around the maniac before her. 

 

As she hit the main road, her cell phone  _ ba-bing’d _ from the belly of her bag. The  _ whirring _ of the engine began settling her but only slightly as she fished blindly through her too-full purse, searching for her phone. Eventually, her fingertips grazed the smooth surface of the phone and she snatched it, praying the noise was the cell signal coming back into range. 

 

Her stomach sank as she turned on her phone, however. She had no bars --  _ ba-bing! _ \-- and her battery was dying. Frustration began to breed where the sinking feeling had been. Of course her phone wasn’t charged. She could have very well plugged it in on the way to the hospital earlier-- but now the USB cord for her car charger was laying uselessly across her 

 

_ Wham! _ Her palm hit the steering wheel in her exasperation. “Dammit!” she swore, her breath coming in heavy, wheezing waves. 

 

Roster could still be alive. He could need help. There were two serial killers in her home (or at least on her property). The drive to the police station was a long one but it was closer than the hospital.  _ Besides _ , she thought, bitterly,  _ it’s Halloween night -- if I even could call, they’d probably think it was a prank _ .

 

* * *

 

Wednesday, 31 October 2018   
Haddonfield, Illinois

 

_ Police Department; Roth’s Office _

 

Officer Roth clasped his hands behind his back, sighing as Jordan finished her dramatic retelling of the masked men and Roster’s (presumed) death. The stress of the evening was taking its toll on Jordan, causing her voice to strain in her repine, her words coming as a rapid-fire plea for help. 

 

Roth only sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose in a way that made Jordan’s heart sink. It was tremendously clear by the enervated look on his face that he thought she was crazy. 

 

“Look, Miss Jones,” he sighed heavily, crossing his arms in front of his body, “it’s Halloween. And while the kids here are  _ good _ kids, they’re still kids. You’re their teacher -- teacher get pranked all the time.”

 

“A  _ prank _ ?” she seethed. “You think I’m talking about a prank? Roster was stabbed! He’s probably  _ dead by now _ !” She gestured wildly, eyes darting around the white-walled room as if there was anything that would help her case. When she found nothing to note -- because the primly organized array of files and the  _ Certification of Civil Service _ placard on the wall were doing absolutely nothing for her -- she threw her hands up in the air. “My house is on fire!” She remembered the flames slowly beginning to gnaw its way through her living room. 

 

“Then why haven’t you called the fire department?” Roth groaned, his voice irked and tired. 

 

“Because I was a little preoccupied by the murder!”

 

His shoulders sagged slightly and he finally reached for his hand-held. “Greene -- can you code 13 for a walk in report?” 

 

“ _ That’s affirmative _ .” Greene’s voice flowed from the radio within a matter of a few seconds.

 

Roth pointed at the chair opposite his desk, sternly. “Wait there,” he snapped before leaving the room.

 

* * *

 

Jordan's knee bounced impatiently as she told Berta at the front desk that, no, she didn't need a cup of coffee for what had to have been the twelfth time in the past half hour. Waiting to hear back from Roth made the time pass impossibly slowly, the _tick-tick-ticking_ from the clock gaining a tremendous volume as it slowly crept forward.   
  
Finally, Roster came back through the door, shaking his head knowingly. "There's no sign of anybody up at that property again -- Greene just called in. There's no sign of struggle, no sign of Roster, no sign of the suspects. There's no fire, either," he added, "though Greene mentioned some scorch marks from a knocked over a candle that did a hell of a job to your table runner. You ought to be more careful about that."   
  
Jordan's eyelids fluttered as her brain struggled to keep up with what he was saying. "Roster, he was stabbed in the doorway.  There must be blood--”   
  
"There's no blood."   
  
"His car was parked in my driveway--"   
  
"His car isn't there. There's absolutely no sign of him." He paused, narrowing his eyes as he examined her. "Have you been drinking tonight, Miss Jones?"   
  
"Drinking?" Jordan was standing suddenly, rage flowing through her. "Drinking?! Have you lost your mind?"   
  
"Have you lost yours?" Roth demanded, matching her volume and causing her to wince. "Stand down, Miss Jones."    
  
Jordan sunk back down into her chair, mind reeling. Was she going crazy? No. She couldn't be it was far too real. It was real. She dropped her head into her hands, trying to steady her ragged breath and ease her trembling mind. Nothing made sense to her now. What was happening and why was it happening to her?   
  
She'd moved here to get away from the past. She's spent over a year in the psych ward trying to get over what he did to her and she was finally okay. But now. Now there were two maniacs...in her home. A strangled sob left her. It wasn't fair. This type of thing happening once was an anomaly. But twice?    
  
She was the unluckiest person to have ever existed.   
  
_ The cold metal of the restraints bit into her the flesh of her wrists as she regained consciousness, disoriented in the darkened room. Memories of her ex and the kitchen flooded her, but she couldn't remember far beyond that. How did she wind up prostate, bound to a metal slab?  _ __   
__   
_ "Hello?" she called, voice hoarse. "Frank?"  _ __   
__   
_ His laughter cut through the darkness, sharp and dangerous. Dark energy seeped through the room as the footsteps approached.  _ Pat-pat. Pat-pat. Pat. Pat. Pat.  __   
__   
_ Suddenly he was looming over her, teeth bared in a disturbing grin -- an expression she had never seen on his face before. "Did you think you could leave me with nothing? Just like that?" _ __   
__   
_ "W-what are you talking about?" she asked. "Untie me!" _ __   
__   
_ Frank barked a bitter laugh, tapping her on the nose that would be perceived as an affectionate gesture in any other situation. "Did you really think that you could just leave? That I would let you? I loved you, Jordan!"  _ __   
__   
_ Both hands slammed down on the table, straddling her head so that she screwed her eyes shut, anticipating a blow. His disturbing laughter did nothing to make her want to open her eyes again. _ __   
__   
_ "Oh no -- we're far past hitting now, aren't we?" _ __   
__   
_ Jordan swallowed, feeling him move away from her. The soft scraping of metal caused her eyes to fly open. "What are you doing?" she demanded as he brought the surgical blade into view. "What the fuck, Frank! Let me go!" She struggled against her restraints, her entire body felt as though she was submerged in frigid, icy waters. "Let me go!" _ __   
__   
__ The sound of his laughter engulfed the darkened room, only to be matched by the sound of strangled, torturous screams tearing from her throat moments later.    
  
No, no... this could not be in her head. It was as real as it was then. Absent-mindedly, she ran her finger along a long scar on her abdomen, trying in vain to swallow the lump that had been building in her throat from the moment she’d seen Myers.    
  
"Maybe you should head home for the night," Roster said, earning himself a heated glare. "You know, get some rest. You have school tomorrow. If you're not feeling better by morning, maybe call off. Mr. Sanderson is always looking for some more hours and the kids like him. He's a great substitute.”

Standing slowly, she could only nod. There was only one option left. She had to find Doctor Loomis. 

**Author's Note:**

> Timelines, settings and locations [people unfamiliar with the fandoms will not need to know this information as it is clarification for those of you who are familiar with either fandom]
> 
> The Texas Chainsaw Massacre took place in Texas, United States (obviously). In Texas Chainsaw 3D, it is established that Thomas/Jediah/Bubba/or whatever other names you'd prefer to call Leatherface by has a relative in Newt, Texas to which he flees in the aftermath of the Sawyer shootout (and yes, I've changed this plot point around, too). I've used this concept of Leatherface having a relative, only I moved her to Haddonfield, Illinois (the fictional setting of the Halloween movies) and then disregarded the remainder of the movie.
> 
> Texas Chainsaw Timelines, what to know:
> 
> \--Plot points from Leatherface (2107): Establishing that Leatherface's name is Jedidiah Sawyer, The Gorgon House (and the escape thereof), the death of the Sheriff's daughter.
> 
> \--Plot points from the original Texas Chainsaw Massacre (1974): The grave robbing reference as well as using the corpses to make ‘artwork', and, of course, Sally Hardesty's experience. 
> 
> Halloween Timelines, what to know:
> 
> \--Sticking to the aftereffects of the original Halloween for now.
> 
> Original Character [Jordan] Timelines, what to know:
> 
> \--Jordan moved to Haddonfield for a fresh start and bought the Sawyer Estates in a closed auction held by the state in April of 2018.
> 
> All TCM & Halloween movie events have occurred sometime within five [5] years of the current date [2018] instead of the years they happened in the movies.


End file.
